Once
by Hobbity
Summary: Once, she had asked him to spend the night with her.
1. Once

Disclaimer- I own nothing.

Drabble-esque, short.

For my sister, my best friend, my lovebug, my B.

**Pairing : **Steerpike/Fuchsia

* * *

Once, she had asked him to spend the night with her.

His heart had leapt, his skin had prickled with a new energy. He had said 'yes' before she had even finished asking.

But she had meant nothing of the sort. Only, she said, she had wicked dreams sometimes. She liked to know that someone was there to look after her if she woke frightened. Once, she said, Dr.Prunesquallor had stayed with her, all night.

Steerpike's skin had crawled nastily.

All the same, he had done as she asked and stayed with her. He lay with one arm around her waist, daring any nightmare to come near, leaning up on his elbow amongst various pillows in the finest bed he had ever laid eyes upon.

He had not slept, not for a minute. He watched her delicate eyelids flutter in sleep, brushed kisses along the line of her jaw, etched her face into his memory, resolved never to forget it. Smiling like a fool, he whispered secrets to her in the dark, knowing she would never hear them again. Secrets from childhood, from the kitchens. And that most intimate secret of all, those words he would never speak in daylight.

He watched the moonlight draw patterns across her skin, that same wintry light shared by his arm around her, his naked chest, the contours of his face. Dawn came too soon. By the time the sun began to rise, he had composed hundreds of poems for her in his mind. By the time it was light, he had forgotten them all.

She had woken curled against him, feeling safe beneath his strong arm. She thought he smelled like lavender and spices.

Before conscious thought dawned upon her properly, she had never felt so loved.

He had not wanted to let her go. He had wanted to stay like that for all of his life. But she had been startled, perhaps even embarrassed. Or outraged.

He had been cursing himself for being too daring, for going too far, for frightening her away- and that was so easy to do. He despised himself for having a fool's hope that she would ever love him in return.

But then, she had turned those eyes upon him and smiled. Eyes which surpassed the beauty of any star in any galaxy, the smile that made him a different man, weak and powerless.

Then, she had asked him to spend the day with her.


	2. Twice

Disclaimer- I own nothing.

Chapter two is fluffier than the first. Just Steerpike entertaining Fuchsia with a game.

* * *

"What are you, lady Fuchsia?"

"I'm a princess!" She had called in return, sweeping her long skirts about her feet and twirling in a dance. "Can't you see? Here is my gown-" she said, draping a long sheet around her shoulders, "and here is my castle!". She jumped onto the bed, sending pillows flying. "What are you?"

He grabbed the dark throw off an armchair, made a hooded cape with it, lunged for her ankles, crying, "I am the evil wizard, come to steal you away!"

"Why?" she squealed, leaping off the bed and flinging open the little door that led to her playroom.

"Because," he called, chasing her up the narrow staircase, "You are far too beautiful for anyone else to see you but me!"

He swooped up behind her and grabbed her around the waist, spinning her round, met with shrieks of fear and delight. He carried her all the way up the little staircase and set her on the balcony landing, pretending to lock a door.

"Now you're trapped for ever" he told her, and took some small, sick joy from the look of anguish across her face. He tiptoed back down the stone staircase in a villain's crawl, an evil smirk around his lips.

She began to cry, stamping her feet on the floor. "Oh, _no!_"

He ducked behind a chair, and came back up again without the chair-throw cloak, instead clutching a length of wood in his hand.

"What are you now?" she asked, turning off her tears immediately and leaning over the balcony's ledge to peer down, her long dark hair falling around her face.

"I'm your dashing prince, come to save you," he told her proudly, and she beamed, clapping her hands together.

"Oh, good!"

"But here comes the evil wizard!" He bellowed, pointing to a spot a little way off, thin air only. She gasped, her hands clasped over her mouth. "Don't let him kill you!"

And here- here he staged an elaborate swordfight between himself and the imaginary, lunging with his wooden sword, light on his feet as a dancer, avoiding the make-believe weapon of another.

Lunge, step, clatter.

His sword fell to the floor, he stumbled backwards, clutching his shirtless chest, his face wrought in an expression of pain.

Fuchsia gasped again, leaning right over the ledge. "Oh no, Steerpike!"

But he was on his feet again, and with his wooden weapon in hand he made one final lunge and let out a cry of triumph.

Fuchsia cheered, laughing, "good! Now, come and save me!"

He bound up the staircase towards her, his long legs taking him three steps at a time. He pretended to break off the lock and fling the door open.

She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. "My prince saved me!" she laughed, and he clung back just as tight.

"I braved great dangers for you, my lady." He told her modestly as he led her down the stairs. "As well as defeated the wizard, I have slain a dragon, overcome two witches, and flown on the back of a great white eagle .All for you."

She glowed, tears of happiness shining in her large dark eyes. The weakness of his knees was nothing to do with taking three steps at a time. She went to hug him again, but he flinched and withdrew.

"Have you hurt yourself?" She asked, deep concern in her beautiful face.

"Yes- I was stabbed-" he pointed to his chest, near his heart, "-here."

"Shall I kiss it better?"

"You would do me an honour, lady Fuchsia." He said softly, meaning every word.

She glanced up at him, unsure for just a minute, and then stepped forward and brushed her lips over his heart. Once, twice.

"Thank you." He said. She smiled.

There was a most wonderful, serious pause.

Then, there was a loud knocking on the door. Nanny Slagg's voice drifted up into the room.

"Lady Fuchsia! Lady Fuchsia, you wicked girl!"

Fuchsia stamped her foot again, calling back, "Go _away_, Nanny!"

"I heard screaming!" came the indignant reply. "It sounded like someone was being killed. That awful boy isn't up there with you, is he? That kitchen filth?"

Fuchsia would have cried back, "No Nanny, go away!", but she couldn't speak for laughing. Steerpike, his back bent, was doing a wonderfully crude impression of the old woman, waggling his finger in her direction and shaking his head.

Then he stood up straight again and aimed his middle finger towards the general direction of the old hag's voice. Fuchsia gasped, but he swept her up again and spun her round till she was too dizzy to stand straight.

"My beautiful queen!" he cried, changing the spin into a dance, "_My _lady Fuchsia!"

"Yes!" she agreed dizzily, still laughing, she asked him, "who are you being now?"

"I am being your entertainer, madam. Your humble servant."

"Don't be that." She told him. He paused, and then asked,

"Who shall I be for you, my lady?"

She glanced at him, and then in a moment of sudden sureness, and defiance to everyone, she leant against his shoulder and said quietly,

"be Steerpike."


	3. Third

Disclaimer- I own nothing.

The roles are reversed. Not so fluffy as the second or as deep as the first- just a loose portrait of Steerpike. Hm. Not sure how I feel about this. The fourth should be better, I hope.

For anyone and everyone who reads/has seen/knows of Gormenghast. Where are you all?

* * *

It was not moonlight that filtered in through that muddy window- it was a cold, pale glow.

Fuscia knew that soon the sun would rise and that she would have to start pretending again quite soon.

But for now, that was later. And for later, she left it.

For now, she watched the shadow of clouds pass across the young man's sleeping face. He slept in her playroom because she had told him to, because he was good and clever enough to be allowed in. He was strange and mysterious and beautiful enough to be allowed to stay. He didn't know she was watching- if he did, he would have turned his face so that she could see and adore it better.

But for now, he slept half-turned away from her. That pale light caught the sharp angles of his face. It put silver streaks into his dark hair, made his kitchen-worn skin look soft. Now was the only time she felt she could be so near to him without some unexplainable fear. She turned over his hands, inspected the grime under his nails and the length of his fingers. His palms were rough from work. She had never worked a day in her life.

His arms were strong, she knew that. She knew it from the times he had held her, mostly in play or affection, but once in frustration, desperation for her to like him better. He never hit her, only scared her. And yet somehow the temper, as well as the gorgeous mystery, was enthralling. His body, like he had said himself, was nothing short of _magnetism._ His face was not the fairytale-hero strong chin and clear blue eyes. It was awkward, the way his mouth curled, the narrowness of his eyes, the way his eye would twitch slightly when he was angry…

And yet she found herself adoring it. Unable to stay away from him, both literally and in the sense that her mind was never far from thoughts of his charm.

The paler light had gone, replaced by a dim, warmer glow. He stirred and she knew that he would wake early, because he always woke early. And he always liked to think he was awake before her. And he usually was. But not always- once he had caught her watching him when he woke, the second time he caught her, he became suspicious, even paranoid. The third time, she had pretended to be asleep the second his eyes opened.

She cast one fleeting look at his sleeping form, his half-raised eyebrows, the ghost of a smile on his lips from some happy or malicious dream (but who was he dreaming of?), his hair falling around bare shoulders, the sheets loose around his waist.

In a moment of daring, she lay her hand palm down on his chest.

She could feel his heartbeat, so she knew he had a heart.


	4. Fourth

Disclaimer- I own nothing.

This chapter is up thanks to the lovely reviews I got. I hope you all enjoy this.

* * *

There is a great pavement in the clouds, and only Steerpike knows how to get there.

The water that slowly swallows Gormenghast plucks and laps against the sides of the little boat that is his saviour, his tiny, almost useless fort. He knows that when they come for him there will be fleets of them with arrows and bows and probably, most hideous of all, fire.

He is stretched out in the boat as if to sleep, but no sleep comes to him. He lies with one hand behind his head, the other over his heart. It has never hurt so much before.

He lies instead with his eyes half open, watching four leaves toyed by the wind, skitter on the surface of the deep dark water.

Lady Fuchsia's rejection sharp in his memory, his anger boils just below the surface. He'll get them all back, he'll win this fight like he's won all of the others. And he'll make her _see._

He sits up when he thinks he hears an echo of despair, and then a great splash in the water. His blood freezes for a reason he can't think of.

He knows he can't win again. He's been too lucky, too sure. And this time it's different- he no longer has the advantage of knowing every corner of Gormenghast. The hallways and hidden rooms he knows so well are all deep underwater.

If not only that, he is a wounded man.

He can't think of anything but her horror-stricken face, her dark judgemental eyes, and her beautiful mouth open in disgust. He remembers how abruptly his heart sunk as he realised his mistake, how it felt like the end of the world for a moment.

How she turned away, how she refused his kiss.

Only he knows where the pavement in the sky leads. In one second, he realises two things, things which will eventually lead to his destruction. These realisations are that Lady Fuchsia is gone forever.

And he has not told her how to reach the pavement.


	5. Fifth

Disclaimer- I own nothing.

I know it's out of order. But hell. I wanted to finish it off on a slightly lighter tone.

* * *

It will be beautiful.

It will be beautiful because _she _is beautiful.

He listens for footsteps and whenever they come, he extinguishes the candle. Wouldn't want anyone to find him, discover this secret place. This is a room only meant for him, and for her, when she comes.

He has bruised himself, tying drapes here, putting up a tapestry there. He has calculated the amount he needs to open the curtains for the moonlight to shine through, when she comes.

He has spent days acquiring the right chairs, the table, the cushions, the throws and the rugs. He has had the food specially prepared, the wine chilled just the right amount. He could have had servants do all this for him, but why risk being discovered, when he could do it all so much more quickly and easily? Only he knows what she likes, after all. He's the only one who pays her any attention.

He has found her roses, and there are scratches on his hands from where the thorns gripped at his skin as he stole the flowers. Red and white and pink, and if any of them have even the tiniest brown spot he has discarded them. He has settled them so that their scent will be lingering but not overpowering, when she comes.

He has lit up the candles strategically, so as not to cast too much of a light upon the hideous mask that guards his scarred face from her sensitive eyes. He knows he scares her, and he doesn't want to do that any more. Not tonight. He has promised himself that he won't ask her difficult questions, he won't try to trick her, and he won't shout or grip at her. He'll be gentle and speak softly and be charming, when she comes.

The monkey is occupied, dozing on the little satin cushion that he prepared for it. Its tail is tied by a rope so that it can't escape and ruin the surprise. So that it will be a surprise, for when she comes.

He hears whispers, and narrows his eyes. Who else but her would be down here, in this specific corridor, at this late time? He listens at the door for unfamiliar footsteps, counting till the fifth. By the time he has crept out of the little room, the whisperer has gone and he can hear her soft footsteps instead, can see the glow of a candle.

Before he can think to be angry with her for bringing a candle, he is all too taken by being delighted that she has come at all. This time, this will be the right time. He'll prove that he's nothing to be afraid of. He can hear her gentle breathing, his heart feels like it might crack open.

She is coming, and in the moment before he is angry with her, he loves her more than ever.


End file.
